


Hidden Obsession

by Josie_P



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: M/M, More tags to be added, Other Ships May Also Be Included
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:06:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josie_P/pseuds/Josie_P
Summary: Minho gently removed his hand from Chan’s, and bowed slightly. “Well, nice to meet you, Stray Kids performer.”“Chan, the name is Chan, Chan, I’m older than you, so you can call me Chan hyung.”“Chan… hyung.” Minho’s lips pursed into a slight smile, before walking away to the back of the backstage area into another room. Chan watched him til the second he opened the door and left, eyes tracing up and down his back profile, drinking up the sight of him. He was here. He had finally met his idol.(The story is better than the summary, I promise LOL)
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1 (Rewritten)

**Author's Note:**

> Side Notice In Case You Didn't Understand: Minho is under another entertainment, HBC, and Stray Kids are independent, not under an entertainment. So JYP basically doesn't exist in this fic, and HBC Ent. is completely fictional and made up by me. 
> 
> Please enjoy, and comments/kudos are appreciated :)

The concert room is pitch black. Slowly, smoke wisps spiral from the unseeable smoke-makers, strategically placed in the corners of the large stage, the mist leisurely seeping from the bottom of the stage and making its way to the apprehensive audience, whispering in tones of delight and excitement. A hush fell over the crowd, when the dancers came on stage, and the spotlight, it’s luminescent luster landing on no one, but rather on the straight middle of the stage, it’s light suggesting tantalizingly the entrance of someone else. Someone who’s been long awaited for.

No one is cheering, speaking, and it seems as if they aren’t even breathing - the sound of the concert hall filled with 50,000 people not even amassing to 20 decibels. However, everyone’s phones are out, various different models, all straight away from their owner, as close to the stage as they can get, capturing the dark room and graceful dancers, all pulled away from the middle to the edges of the stage, seperating when another presence enters a room--the way oil separates from water.

The powerful, pure, live vocals coming from the center stage, makes the fans react, in more ways than one, and the spotlight seems to shine brighter in happiness at a companion which shines as brilliantly as itself. Screaming, cheering, and singing, now fill the previously silent concert room, as fans hold their light sticks in the air, chanting a single name, over and over. “LEE KNOW! LEE KNOW! LEE KNOW!” The individual words seem to all blend together into a perpetual scream of passion and longing, the enthusiasm of the crowd seems to leak into the atmosphere, making the people breathe their own joy over and over, instead of oxygen.

The performer, of course, Lee Minho, doesn’t let the crowds deter him. The hysterical screaming and crying from the front row, the throwing of fan-made posters, the joyous shouts, instead of feeling overwhelming, it feels familiar.

The shouts of the fans are like batteries, charging him up and letting him continue to dance, to sing, to do what he’s always loved, what he’s always dreamed of doing. He owes his life, his passions and hopes achieved to these people, he knows, and it always makes him feel indebted. Which is why at every performance, he gives his heart, soul, and spirit, to make sure each of them are doing nothing less than having the absolute time of their lives.

It’s the least he could do, after all.

It’s these kinds of thoughts that fill his head as he performs, muscle-memory taking over as he lands a series of complicated twists, and takes a glance towards the back of the crowd. He hadn’t even looked past the second row, and his attention towards the back doesn’t go unnoticed as several fangirls practically shriek at his quick glance.

Before he knows it, the song ends. No time in his daily routine goes by faster than concerts. It’s like a wave of stress, hype, and adrenaline, washing by the shore and then leaving him exhausted. But the exhaustion, as much as it gnaws at his bones after every comeback, is worth it, he decides, when he sees his fans glowing after his performance, and he looks through the crowd of thousands, unable to pick out a single unhappy face, and decides that today has been a good day. A day which went as it was supposed to, without a doubt.

He already knows what will happen later. As soon as the backup dancers leave, he’ll say a few words through a mic, thank the fans enthusiastically, prepare for a barrage of roses, and then walk off stage, greeted by his manager hyungnim, who will have let a small ray of emotion peek past his solemn features, a small upturning of the lips, a little pat on the back, and then he’ll be at home, sleep to his heart's content for one day, go to fansign or two, and before he knows it, he’ll have another concert or comeback, not necessarily in that order.

It seems as if it would be tiring, and it is, but Minho doesn’t seem to quite mind it. He also lets a small smile grace his features when he’s done for the day's work, or when he finishes early and gets on a Vlive, because after all, feeling anything but elated, day after day, would be a disgrace to the fans who he’s indebted to.

“Minho?”

The call from his manager, who’s driving in the front seat, startles him from his thoughts, and he’s quick to reply, “Yes?”

“You did good today. I’ve talked to HBC and they say your next world tour will be the next comeback, sometime in January.”

“I see.” Minho bites his lip to stifle a yawn, which still comes out anyway, and his managers' usually stern eyes soften.

“Tired?”

“Mhm.” His head unceremoniously falls from its place on the top of the seat, and knocks against the glass window the car, with a slight thunk! He’s only dimly aware of the slight, lurching, movement of the car as it glides through the streets and highways, finally pulling in at Minho’s home. Minho’s heart smiles at the sight of the small, almost cottage-like structure.

In his sleepy state, he almost stumbles out of the black car, eyes already half-closed. He vaguely registers his Manager say something to him, probably some kind of good-bye, and he fumbles with the steel doorknob, haphazardly poking the key through the center, and breathing a sigh of relief when it opens without further difficulty. His door-knob is rather rusty, and there've been times where it wouldn’t open after a concert and his Manager would come to pick him up and find him in a drooling pool on the house-mat.

He hastily pulls off his shoes, walks for a few seconds and pulls up to his room, with his bunk-bed and falls on the bottom one, too tired to change his clothes or brush his teeth. His dreams are a misty pool of blackness and the occasional random figure or person, and he’s just in the middle of subconsciously trying to puzzle out why he sees a grey person standing in a puddle of white water when the doorbell rings.

Now his conscience is awake--Minho’s been forced to become a light-sleeper every since his idol career started--and he breathes in deeply before throwing off one of his blankets from his aching body, and running a hand through his messy dyed brown hair and walking out of his room, bare-feet padding on the cold wooden floor.

He opens the door, expecting to see a person, most likely his Manager, but instead eyeing a small, unassuming brown box.

An eyebrow raises, and Minho isn’t quite sure which emotion he’s feeling right now. Surprise wouldn’t quite be the correct word to use, because he can’t entirely say that it wasn’t expected for one of his 40 million fans to somehow find his address and drop something off, but even so, he can’t quite say he’s used to this kind of thing.

A part of him wants nothing more than to throw the box away, not wanting to give the thing that interrupted his well-needed rest another thought, but the part of him that wins is the one that carelessly throws the box into his house, it lands where his shoes are and he walks back to bed. His beside-clock reading “3:30AM” and he decides he can get another good 7 and a half hours worth of sleep before he’s interrupted again.

Sleep comes like a shadow, swallowing him quickly, painlessly, and without a second-thought, he’s unconscious again.

“MINHO. WAKE UP. RIGHT NOW.”

“Shoot--” is his immediate response, and he’s almost totally sure there was some kind of big schedule event that he had forgotten and slept in for, leading to a voice undeniably his Manager’s to sound from right outside his door. “Yes?” He asks once he’s looked at himself in the mirror, brushed his teeth and flossed at record speed and wetted a comb before running it through his hair quickly, and rushing out of the door.

His Manager doesn’t even say anything, but instead walks out of the house and into the car, leaving Minho to get in and ask for an explanation.

“Mrs. Shin just called me and said that we had to get you to a fansign immediately. I’m sorry about that since I was planning on letting you have a day off today, but she was practically strangling me through the phone-screen about your lack of promotion in Australia and how your fanbase there would supposedly ‘disappear.’” Frustration leaked into his voice, and Minho assumed that he also didn’t have as much time to sleep as he wanted.

“She’s tense, nowadays, you know how popular JJS artists are becoming now, she’s afraid they’ll steal your spotlight.” ’And her money.’ is the part of that dialogue which is unsaid, but fully understood by both people in the small black car.

“I’m driving you to the airport, we’ll get on the flight together, Ms. Shin said there was an extra security team there, and they’ll escort you to Australia, where you’ll stay for around a week for fansigns, and a concert or two.”

“All of this is on short-notice, isn’t it?” It’s the only question Minho can muster to say, wanting above all a night of sleep, but he’s still in his figurative, but tangible debt, and he’s making another payment to try to lighten the load.

“It is, Minho-ah, but don’t worry, Ms. Shin would never let you of all people to run short on security or schedule, so the safety precautions have been taken care of.”

Minho’s mouth closes, devoid of questions and uneases temporarily put at rest, when a sudden realization hits him. “But I didn’t pack my stuff!”

“Dang it.” His Manager comes to the exact same realization, and his car abruptly pulls to a stop. “Okay, uh, I don’t think I can take a U-turn here…”

Minho understands what his manager is getting at, and gets out of the car. He’s also forgotten to put on his shoes, he realizes, and shakes his head, hoping to get the ‘rational thinking’ section of his mind to wake up. “I’ll run there, pack a backpack, and then run back.”

Manager Kim nods, and watches as the idol runs in barefeet back to his small home, which is just barely in view.

Minho doesn’t need to pack much.

Just a few pairs of clothes, his phone, earplugs, basic toiletries, and sketchpad. He’s accustomed to these kinds of trips, though they usually come with a two-week notice, he knows exactly what to pack.

A few minutes later, he’s back in the car, albeit out of breath, and his Manager sends him an approving look. “Good thing you know how to pack fast. Now let’s go.”

Minho nods, his heavy black backpack taking its place on his right side, as Minho internally reviews choreography from his most popular and recent songs.

He’s fallen into a sleepy trance, staring out at the window, mind not registering what he’s seeing, his eyes occasionally fluttering close before opening a few seconds later.

Manager Kim’s voice finally filters through his lethargic mind. “We’re here.”

He hitches his backpack over his left shoulder, black sneakers meeting the cement parking lot a few seconds later, and he shakes his head, trying to get himself to fully wake up. “Okay, Min-ah, let’s go.” Manager Kim says gently, and Minho is ever-grateful that he isn’t rushing him into the airport, like he’s had done to him before with previous managers.

It’s towards the end of the process of being checked into the airport, showing the necessary people his passport and ID and just being about to board the plane when a migraine hits him. It starts out dull and throbbing, towards the left of his head, but he knows that soon it’ll start to be more painful. And, just his luck, he forgot to bring his migraine medication with him.

He’s had migraines before, but never with this kind of intensity in practically forever. His heartbeat feels uncomfortably loud, and his vision feels blurry, his mind is underwater, sounds echo oddly through the building and he’s resisting the urge to curl himself up on the ground and try to sleep it out, but he can’t. Not now. His Manager is talking to him, but all he can see is his lips moving through a watery film over his eyes, and he sees a few men? Probably his security team, he thinks, but maybe they aren’t, he has no idea, because all his thoughts are directed towards making sure that he’s walking smoothly and looks normal enough. He starts to walk towards the tunnel-ramp leading to the plane, when he hears the distorted sounds of camera shutters and the bright light of phones with their flash turned on from behind him.

Slowly, he puts his head down, hoping to escape further scrutiny, but alas, it seems like the cameras and excited whispering from behind him can never cease. With a deep breath, he steps in the entrance of the plane, and finds his seat, hands trembling slightly, breath shaky.

He drops down in the seat, and gently places the backpack underneath his seat, trying to steady his breathing, when he hears a voice.

It speaks in a happy, chipper, accented voice, which sounds pretty fluent. Minho’s tired mind can pinpoint it as sounding Korean-Australian, and he assumes that’s what the speaker is. He looks up slightly, having to blink a few times before he can see the man clearly enough, and even then he finds his peripheral vision still looks somewhat wavy.

The stranger wasn’t talking to him, he realizes, but rather to his phone. “Oy, yes, I’m on the plane, we’ll be landing in around 11 hours, and I’ll see you sometime early tomorrow. Uh-huh. Okay! I’ll be happy to see you as well, bye, mate!” Even though the majority of his words are spoken in Korean, there’s a random English phrase sprinkled in there which Minho tries to translate (he’s always had a bad habit of listening in on conversations which aren’t his to hear).

Minho gasps as the migraine worsens for a few seconds and he’s practically rendered unconscious, burying his head in his hands and wiping away stray tears he involuntarily shed.

The rest of the flight passed in a similair fashion. Alternating between the torturous bouts of headaches and trying to get as much rest as he could on the plane, but the loud chatter of the passengers just makes his migraine worse and at somewhere near the 8th hour he decides sleep is stupid and just stares out the window, trying to think about the most mundane, unstressful thing in the universe.

It works for a few minutes, which turns into a few hours, until finally he hears the announcement over the speaker, “Hello, this is your captain speaking, we will arrive at the airport in a few minutes, please keep all your possessions secure….” There’s more about safety and lost baggage that Minho doesn’t quite care enough about to actually listen.

By the time he’s stepped out of the plane with his security team, the mighty storm of his previous migraine has thinned out into a slight, misty fog, and Minho sighs in relief.

“Minho-ssi,” a man from the team, looking to be somewhere in his mid-50’s addresses him. “We’ve been ordered to take you from here to your hotel room, and your Manager will come get you when it’s time for your fansign later.”

Minho merely nods, hitching his backpack further up his shoulder and following the security team.

He’s tired.


	2. Chapter 2 (Rewritten)

Finally, after a half an hour car ride, they’d arrived at the hotel. It’s one of the many, almost excessively lavish hotels Minho has had the ‘pleasure’ of staying at. There’s something about staying in a place which seems so fancy the main purpose is just to impress others, and not make its residents comfortable, which makes Minho kind of restless, which is how he feels tossing and turning in the heavy, cotton sheets, with the bedside table bearing the home of a mere lamp which is almost ridiculously intricately designed, and would probably cost a whole month’s salary at lots of Minho’s old jobs.

Lying in bed, totally jet-lagged, groggy, done with the day but not able to just shut his eyes and go to sleep, Minho gets up from the bed to rustle through his backpack, hoping there’s some kind of narcotic medication he’s stuffed in there for some reason and forgotten to take out. He doesn’t find a narcotic, but he does find a little bottle.

It looks like the exact same bottle containing his prescribed migraine medication, and he has to blink a few times to make sure it actually exists because he could have sworn it wasn’t there when he was practically ransacking his own bag to find it.

There’s a note on it. Written in a scrawling, black handwriting, the unique sticky-note, Minho notices, says “Looks like you need it. Hope it helps.” A frown marrs his face, for two reasons. Reason one, being that the sticky note really doesn’t look like the usual yellow or pink ones he’s used to seeing, but it has some kind of detailed abstract art scribbled on it with a leaky pen, random circles, and squares intersecting, with the note in the middle of the artsy mess.

Reason two, the note itself is so random and--

Wait a second. The cogs in Minho’s mind start to whir, and he finds himself coming to a conclusion. The man who had sat beside him on the plane. The chipper Australian one! He had been right next to him, so it wasn’t unusual that he saw Minho’s pain, and maybe that he wanted to help him, but Minho still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that it was still the exact kind of medication he used.

The only difference between this bottle and his one back at home was that this one was filled to the brim with the white pills, while his was half-empty. “What in the world…” he lets the thought trail off, and debates with himself for a moment, before coming to a decision.

‘“I’ll tell Manager Kim about it first thing tomorrow.” He thinks, before shoving the bottle of pills back into his backpack, and climbing back into bed.

After a few more bouts of tossing and turning, finally, he goes to sleep.

-

“Minho. Minho-ah. Min. Get up. Wake up!”

Minho sighs and buries himself deeper under the covers. “Already?” He asks, voice muffled by his pillow.

Though Minho can’t see it, Manager Kim has one of his signature amused-but-slightly-annoyed expressions he wears so often now with Minho as his ‘client’, although sometimes, though he would never admit it, Minho feels more like family than just a work acquaintance.

“The fansign starts in two hours, and I know you’ll want to spend some time getting ready. Come on. Get up.”

Manager Kim mentally counts to ten, and right on the dot, a stray tuft of Minho’s brown hair peeks through the sheets, and he’s up. Into the bathroom, and Manager Kim sits and waits on a nearby seat, checking his watch and tapping his foot impatiently.

He can hear the shower water running now, and he’s assuming Minho’s going through his incredibly thorough and long, shampoo-conditioner routine, and he sighs. It was certainly going to take the two hours he expected it to take.

Manager Kim, in all his blase' glory, had completely exhausted all possible entertainment he could have gotten from his phone in a whopping ten minutes, and decided to just look around the room. It was same old, same old, he thought, right down to the floor, which had the same floral carpet--

Manager Kim blinked. “What’s this?” He whispered to himself, eyeing the bottle. It seemed to be some kind of medication, with a note. It had some kind of logo on it. A logo which he couldn’t help but feel that it felt familiar.

He had definitely seen it before.

“Hyungnim! I’m ready, are we leaving for the fansign now?”

“Uhm… yeah.” He made a split-second decision, pocketing the bottle and standing up from his seat. “Let’s go.”

-

“Wow… this place is huge.”

Manager Kim nodded. “Yeah, it’s going to be a convention of sorts, lots of other groups and artists are performing, and there’ll be a massive kind of fansign at the end, where the fans can come and see all their favorite artists in one place and get all their albums, posters, etcetera signed. Ms. Shin said it would be an incredible boost to your popularity and reputation since you’ll be able to meet your already loyal fans and make new ones. So…” Manager Kim rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, and it takes Minho a few minutes to understand what he’s getting at. 

“You want me to… perform?”

“Well, yes. Ms. Shin would definitely like that.”

“Right.” Minho cracks his knuckles, a habit he has when thinking. “I guess I’ll perform the most recent ones?”

“The most popular ones.” Manager Kim corrects gently, handing him a list. “These are all the songs with the best choreography, according to a fan survey.”

“I see…”

“Do you think that you’ll be able to pull it off?”

“Of course.” Minho nods briskly, and the two continue to walk across the spacious room. There’s a double door entry into the huge stadium, and Minho, in awe, thinks that it’s about 5x bigger than any place he’s ever performed at.

“Okay, Minho, Ms. Shin told the organizers of the event that you would be performing ahead of time, so you can go over there to the escort who will lead you backstage—”

“Wait. She told them I was going to perform before I even knew about it?”

“...” There’s a lot in Manager Kim’s expression. Minho can’t quite pick any of it out, but he can confirm most of the emotions his manager is feeling are negative.

“Minho… you know what you’re one of the most famous idols at HBC Entertainment—scratch that, all entertainments in the whole kpop industry, and you know the deal with contracts, and arrangements, and—”

“Yes,” Minho responds. He’s momentarily forgotten about the debt. The almost unpayable debt that follows him around. You owe this to them, your fans, do your best, perform for them, make them happy. And he loves it. On most days, he loves the cage-like career he proudly declares as his home, but sometimes, like now, it’s chained. Chains cuffing his arms, which ache and bleed, attached to the immovable, metal pole of the people who he loves, adores, but who keep wanting more. And his one fear is that one day, he won’t be able to give them more.

But for now, he can. And so, he does.

“When’s the performance starting?”

“In.. a few minutes.”

“Alright.” With a flip of the hair and a shake of the head, Minho has gone on his way to talk to the backstage guard, who just happened to be a fan, and let him in (not without asking for an autograph, of course).

“Oh, gosh,” Minho whispered under his breath, his palms dampening. He was so incredibly accustomed to having his own booked out venues to perform at, ones where the only ones backstage were him, and a few backup dancers, that he had totally forgotten how it felt like to have more than just his act backstage.

More girl groups, more boy groups than he had ever seen at once in a lifetime, so, so, so, many people, all close by, and Minho, though he’s never considered himself to be claustrophobic, he just feels so closed-in, and it’s getting hard to breathe--

He breathes deeply, trying to reign in his feelings, and wraps his arms around his thin frame, feeling awkward and out of place amongst all the groups, mingling and talking with themselves. But he has no one to talk with about the stresses of the trainee life or to review difficult choreo with. To build each other up, to rise together from the ashes. Minho only had himself. And only having yourself, sometimes feels lonely.

He feels restless. There’s some kind of perpetual unease inside his stomach, climbing up the walls of his insides, making him feel itchy and cold and warm and sweaty, and altogether all the senses he feels come together to make some kind of monstrosity of violent colors on a blank canvas. Empty mind with many emotions. His breath quickens.

“Yah. Don’t be nervous.” A calm voice comes from behind him, and he stiffens. “First timer in the biz? You know, my idol once said, “Something that gets in your way is a stumbling block. Something that helps you get to your destination is a step. But aren’t they both just lumps of wood?”

“Uhm….” with his back is faced towards the man, he tries to puzzle out why that kind of idiotic statement feels oddly familiar and-- “Lee Know?!” The name bursts out of his mouth without a second thought, and he slaps a hand over his mouth. Well. This is awkward.

“So you know him too!” The man exclaims, excitement practically tangible.

“Hah, uh, yeah--”

“Right, well anyway, I came here to give you this because you looked like you needed it, hydration always helps kill the nervousness.” The man hands him a glass of water, and Minho accepts it gratefully, thankful he didn’t get the opportunity to explain that he’s Lee Know, and somehow this man mistook him for a trainee--

“So, what entertainment are you under?”

“HBC.” He answers without a second thought, before internally facepalming. Okay, now he just has to explain the situation so that this man doesn’t misunderstand.

“Oh, wow! HBC started to debut other artists now? I get why you’re so nervous now, living up to the pressure of meeting the standards of the “all-around king”, Lee Know, right?”

“Uh… I mean, no, I am--”

“LEE KNOW! YOU’RE UP!”

He starts to walk toward the front of the stage, but somehow his feet get stuck somewhere and he ends up stumbling onto the stage.

From there it goes downhill.

He walks past the curtains, a few of the upcoming acts giving him looks as he leaves, and his pink lips purse in slight concern, starting to jog to the center stage. There’s an almost unexplainable nervousness he feels, he’s done this before, plenty of times before, why isn’t this time normal?

He can’t dwell on it as his cue has come to sing, and he starts. Starts the beginning rap, followed by more lines, and then the dance. His eyes scan the audience, and for some reason, he can’t see them.

Well, no, he sees them, but he can’t feel them. He can’t feel the thumping bass of this track, or the shrill high notes that he knows he’s singing, but why can’t he feel it?

His breathing is starting to get heavy, he realizes belatedly, and sweat starts to dampen his hair, the song is coming to an end, but everything starts to feel blurry. Was there another song? He thinks so, as another song has started to play, but then he sees Manager Kim… is that even Manager Kim? Running past the stage, for whatever reason, the lights are getting brighter, shining, glowing, burning.

The last thing he remembers is the burning lights and sticky liquid on his forehead before he falls.


	3. Hidden Away

Changbin scrolled through his contacts, biting his lower lip in concern. Hyunjin was watching him keenly, his sharp grey eyes settled on Changbin’s phone screen, brows furrowed in concern. “Call him, hyung.” 

Normally, Changbin would have rolled his eyes or made some kind of jab at how Hyunjin sounded too bossy, but now he was much too wound up to do any of that. His breaths coming out strained with frustration and fear, he clicked the ‘call’ button. 

It rang. 

And rang. 

And rang. 

**THE CALL HAS NOT BEEN ANSWERED  
CALL BACK [ ] MESSAGE [ ]**

**CALL BACK [ ] MESSAGE [ X ]**

**S. Changbin: Hyung, where are you? Why aren’t you answering my calls?**

\--------- 5 HOURS EARLIER ------

“Chan-ssi, you really don’t have to do this, I don’t even know why you want to, I’ll just be a bother for you, and that’s the last thing I want, I could just walk home--” 

It was just as the two of them had left the building when they realized that it was raining. Not raining as in a warm, steady, drizzle, but heavy, cold, with a plethora of fog, and Chan could practically taste the forthcoming lightning and thunder in the air. Holding his black umbrella, which was a comfortable enough fit for two people above Minho’s head, he began to walk, and Minho followed him. 

“Minnie, you won’t be a bother, okay? Honestly, I don’t know why you wanted to sleep in the dance practice room, it would’ve been incredibly uncomfortable--” 

“My phone died, I forgot my charger, and manager hyungmin goes through enough having to watch me 24/7, Chan-ssi, and I really didn’t--” 

“Just call me hyung, Minho.” 

“Chan… hyung.” Minho licked his lips, eyes flickering to the slightly receding but still heavy rain outside the huge grey awning he and Chan had stopped outside of. “Okay, looks like the rain is dying down now, I can just--” He made a move to step outside the awning, black sneakers getting almost immediately drenched with rain as he began to walk, but he felt a strong hand on his upper arm. 

Chan’s steely, black, eyes pierced into his, and Chan spoke, far more serious than Minho had ever heard him. “You. Are. Coming. With. Me.” Minho could feel the power of his voice and the clear way his facial features came together to paint the perfect picture of intimidation, and he decided in that moment, he didn’t want to get on Chan’s bad side. 

They had been walking for a solid 10 minutes when Minho started to grow twitchy. Chan noticed from the peripheral of his vision, the almost imperceptible tightening of the younger’s jaw, and the clenching and unclenching of neat fingernails against soft skin. “We’re almost there.” 

Minho expected ‘there’ to be an apartment, or some kind of building complex, but it almost looked like a mansion. Of course, Minho’s experience with homes was quite limited, the only one’s he’d really seen were that of his own, and his brother’s small one out in the outskirts of Gwangju, but besides that, HBC had become his ‘humble’ living abode.  
It seemed like 3 small homes meshed into one, large, structure, the outer walls painted a creme color with a large window in the middle, complete with small balconies on the sides, white were off-white. The grass was neat and wet with dew, a few flowers scattered here and there, and a cute little porch swing out by the front. All it needed was a proud, brown, fence enclosing it and he would be able to jokingly call it, “Stray Kids Manor?” 

Chan chuckled, “Not quite.” 

He continued walking, and opened the door, which hadn’t been locked, and Minho audibly gaped. The interior was nothing like he expected. He thought he’d see some other men, similar in age to Chan as his groupmates, and some furniture and whatnot, probably fancy is the outside of the house was anything to go by, but what he saw was quite different. 

The house was entirely empty, except for a few old, dusty, cobwebs that lined the edges of the walls. Everytime he took a step, a piece of the weak wooden floorboard would creak, and Minho was instantly afraid that it would cave in entirely. 

“Chan hyung.” The name slipped out much easier, the fear he felt acting like water, letting it roll down his tongue without a second thought. “Where are we? What is this place?”  
“A nice place. You’ll see.” 

Minho shivered. “Chan hyung, please.” He wasn't surprised when he heard his voice crack. He hated being scared. “Just let me leave, I can’t--” 

“Shh.” Chan placed a finger to Minho’s lips, effectively shushing him. “Don’t worry okay? You trust me, don’t you?” The lights flickered. 

Minho didn’t respond. 

“I’m just going to stay here for a while, I have some business to attend to, and then we’ll leave.” Chan said in a more pleasant tone, and began to walk into one of the narrow hallways leading out of the room, not the way they had entered in. Chan opened a door at the end of the hallway, if ‘door’ was even the correct word. It would be more fitting to call it a wooden panel, with thin cracks along the sides outlining its rectangular shape; you wouldn’t have seen it unless you’d known it was there. 

The tall paneled open, far more smoothly than the rusty creaking Minho had been expecting, and it led down to a dark flight of stairs, leading to what he assumed was a basement. “Chan hyung, what are we even doing here?”

Chan just smiled, and grabbed his arm, leading him down. 

Minho thought he saw a lightswitch on the grey walls leading down, but because of the dim light he couldn’t be sure.

If there was one, Chan didn’t turn it on. 

A few minutes later, “Ay, don’t be so scared,” Chan teased, punching Minho playfully. 

He tried to laugh, to try to project that he wasn’t a bit uncomfortable, nor tense, God forbid scared, and he was used to being able to project his emotions on himself as if he was a screen, despite of what he actually felt, and everyone always fell for it. 

Chan just snorted, unimpressed. “It’s okay, Min, there’s just something I think you should try.” 

“T-Try?”  
\---------PRESENT DAY--------

“Changbin, just go to bed, it’s okay.” Jeongin whispered, eyeing the smaller man who was curled up on the couch, almost like a little puppy, waiting for Chan to come home, staring at the door. 

“Remember our ‘trainee’ days? He did this a few times then.”

“Yeah, I know, but then he always had some kind of reason, it isn’t like him to be so… sudden.”

“It’s okay, I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow.” Jeongin reassured, handing him a cup of hot chocolate. “Now, drink this and go to bed, okay?” 

“Oh… alright. Let me just wait for another hour though,” Changbin’s eyes moved away from him and towards the door again, and Jeongin sighed. “Okay, hyung. Okay.”


	4. The Dark Floodgates

Blurry.

Where…? 

Can’t see--

Ow…. that hurt. 

It’s dark. Way darker then it should be. Minho blinks a few times, eyes automatically searching for light. He can’t find any. It’s pitch black. “Hello?” He calls out, and stumbles forward, foot bumping into some unidentifiable object, and he tumbles down to the floor, heart pounding and nervous saliva pooling in his mouth as his arms stretch everywhere, searching for a wall, some kind of boundary or sign of where he is. 

He calls. Calls upon the name that, though he hadn’t heard of it a week ago, now has become familiar, has become as easy to say as chloroform to inhale, and poison to drink.

“Chan hyung?” 

\-----------------------------------------------------

It’s 2AM when he comes home. 

Changbin is lying in bed, covers pulled up to his lower eyelid, and to anyone else he would look asleep, but no, his eyes flicker open every once in a while to check if his leader’s home, and his mind is ever-aware of his absence. 

Relief comes in the form of footsteps, his ears catching on to the rhythmic tap, click, clack of Chan’s boots on the floor, and his breath catches. He immediately stands up, and rushes to the living room, where Chan has settled on the couch, phone in his hand. 

“Watcha doing?” He asks casually. Casually, as if he’d just woken up and come downstairs, as if he’s just harmlessly curious, as if he hadn’t missed Chan. 

“Just checking something.” 

Changbin raises an eyebrow, somewhat used to Chan being rather private, sometimes, but not fully accustomed to it, given how open everyone else in the band was with their activities and feelings. 

“Where… were you?” 

“Nowhere, really. Just had some business to attend to.” 

Changbin bites his lip, trying to stop himself from screaming, or crying, both, or worse. “....Oh.” 

“Did JJS also approve our request to get a recording room? For our new album?” 

Changbin sighed. “They haven’t replied yet, but even then, I don’t think we’re ready to record the songs yet. I’ve been listening to the track, and it’s so… soft, and sleek? Our style is more hardcore rap, I’m not sure why you want this to be the title track, to be honest.” 

“Because I have an idea.” Chan replied simply, and Changbin knows better than to question him, or ask him to elaborate. Chan knows what's best for the group. He knows that. Or at least, he thinks he does. But Changbin can’t help but feel the cracks form at the edges of his subconscious, the cracks of doubt and darkness sowing seeds of disbelief, almost pain, when he slowly feels the trust and closeness he feels for his leader. Bit by bit. Chip by chip. Lie by lie. 

“Okay, go to sleep now, Bin, we’ll have a busy day tomorrow!” 

“Alright.” 

Lights off. Breath slow. Inhabitants and house alike, fallen in sleep, the cogs in minds slowly coming to a stop.  
It’s peaceful. 

\--------------------------------------------

“HELP! SOMEONE! PLEASE! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!” Minho bangs on the ever unyielding door, half-expecting to hear the telltale sound of cracking knuckles combined with useless efforts, but the silence remains as suffocating as it was before. 

He’s terrified. Not terrified as in a little nervous, the way he’s sometimes felt before concerts. Or even the slight fear when walking through a crowded airport, afraid of falling away or pulled by the crowd, but absolutely terrified. He’s shaking, hands trembling, and can barely hold himself up. His legs buckle, and he tumbles to the ground, and he feels tears run down his face.

He’s been here for what feels like forever, even though he knows that’s not realistic, and he’s so, so, scared. He doesn’t know what's real or fake, doesn’t know who to trust, or what to do. He’s also starving, and it’s pitch-black so he can’t see his surroundings. He thought he had found a door, however, when he had traced his fingers around the whole premise of the room, trying to avoid the random, unseeable objects scattered around. 

He’d found a slight indent in the wall where the door was, and tried everything he could to open it. Kicking, banging, punching, screaming, scratching, anything. None of it worked. 

He was stuck.

His resolve, resolute attitude to stay calm, breaks.

Sobbing, crying, almost wailing, fills the room, and Minho wants to get out. He wants to leave, he wants to be held, to feel something other than the cold floor and the metal door. 

\---------{3 DAYS LATER}-------------------

**STRAY KIDS GROUPCHAT**

**S.Changbin: Has anyone seen him?**

**Innie: No…**

**Innie: who last saw him?**

**FFFLix: It’s okay, guys, let’s just go to practice, he’s bound to show up sooner or later, you’ve all finished your scenes for the scenes for the reality show thingy, right?**

**Seungie: Yeah**

**Hannnn: Yep.**

**S.Changbin: Same, see you in a few minutes at the practice room then?**

**Hannnn: ok!**

**FFFLix: Alrighty :)**

**Seungie: see youuuuu**

**Innie: bye!**

**HJinJin: bye-bye@**

**HJinJin: *!**

\-------------------------------

The door opens.

Minho shrieks. A cracked, painful sound, both for him to make and someone to listen to, filled with pain and anguish and the rough tone of someone who’s been crying for quite awhile. 

There’s Chan. Chan hyung. He crouches next to where Minho is, and tuts. “Aaw, Minnie.”

Minho can’t make out what the voice inflection means. His hyung doesn’t sound surprised, or angry, or concerned, or anything really, but it’s not adequate to say he sounds emotionless. It’s just… some kind of unidentifiable feeling. It’s weird. 

“Have you been crying--” He can't even finish his question before Minho buries himself in his chest, the sobbing increasing by tenfold, more emotion tumbling out than what he thought he was capable of. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” Chan soothes, rubbing circles on his back, calming him down. 

Slowly, Minho’s eyes flutter shut and he falls asleep. Right in Chan’s arms. 

Chan’s lips slowly curl into a smile. "That was easier than I expected."


	5. Notice!

Alrighty, so I decided just to make a whole new chapter for this notice, since it's pretty important. When originally coming up with the idea for this fic, I intended it to be a very slow burn, but now I’ve realized all the scenes feel really fast-paced, which is why I’ve basically decided to rewrite some of the already written chapters/scenes in order to make sure the whole thing feels more slow-paced and more easily understandable. 

It may be awhile before I actually publish a new chapter, since I'm planning to rewrite everything I've written til this point, and replace that with the already there chapters. Just to clarify, I'm not really planning on introducing a whole new plot, but I want to try to make everything more detailed and maybe change the layout of a lot of the scenes and kind of adjust the way things come to unfold and play out - but it would be good to read the rewritten chapters just because they'll probably make more sense than the other ones, and I'm not quite satisfied with the way I've written them now. 

So, that's all I have to say for now, just to give you a rough idea, I'll be working on this pretty regularly, and I'll start to replace chapters sometime in the next week/late October. 

I hope to see you then~

(Edit: Chapter 1 has been rewritten, and I'm pretty satisfied with the edits I've made, go check it out!)


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